There You'll Be
by LilyIsAwesomerThanYou
Summary: On his seventeenth birthday, Harry wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. When he walks downstairs, he finds James Potter sitting at the kitchen table, buttering his toast as though it's just another normal morning.


**Another random plot bunny, because apparently I get the most motivation to write when I absolutely do not have the time for it. So _hopefully_ I'll see you all in a week when I've finished my finals for the semester... because wow I need to focus on schoolwork.**

 **Title from "There You'll Be" by Faith Hill, although the song really didn't influence the story much**

 **I don't own Harry Potter.**

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There You'll Be

When Harry awoke, the unfamiliar room around him put him on edge. The comfortable four-poster bed that he was lying in and the mahogany furniture in the room were a far cry from Ron's garishly orange-decorated Chudley Cannons bedroom at the Burrow.

Harry rolled out of the bed, slipping out from beneath the maroon duvet. His holly wand was lying on the bedside table, a welcome sight and a small sign that perhaps he hadn't woken up in Malfoy Manor or somewhere equally as sinister. He picked up the wand and held it in front of him as he crept into the hallway and down the stairs, where he found himself in a brightly lit kitchen. Harry stopped dead at the sight before him, wand lowering automatically.

James Potter was sitting at the kitchen table as though it were the most natural thing in the world, a slice of toast in one hand and that morning's copy of the _Daily Prophet_ in the other. His glasses were perched on his nose, having slid down the bridge of his nose a bit. His signature messy black hair was graying at the temples.

Harry knew that he should raise his wand and point it threateningly at the image of his father. He knew that he should demand answers and take no excuses, interrogating the Death Eater that thought that it would be acceptable to impersonate his father who had been dead for sixteen years. He knew that he shouldn't be standing here staring at the man like an idiot who was likely about to be ambushed by a horde of Death Eaters, but his voice was caught somewhere between his churning stomach and his reeling brain.

Then James looked up and flashed Harry a smirk that seemed both exceedingly familiar and entirely new, and Harry's throat dried out. Hazel eyes met his green ones.

"There's the man of the day!" James exclaimed excitedly, seeming not to notice Harry's shock. "Happy birthday, son! How does it feel to be legal?"

Harry still stared blankly at the man in front of him, trying to will his legs to move and take a seat at the kitchen table. The paranoid part of his brain was screaming at him to get out of the house as quickly as he could, but the tiny shards of Harry's broken childhood were crying out for just one breakfast with his father, even if it was a trap.

Harry's throat finally emitted a strangled, "Dad?"

James stopped buttering the slice of toast that he was holding, dropping it back onto his plate and scattering toast crumbs across the table. He stood and approached Harry, pulling the boy into a hug. Harry sucked in a surprised breath, tentatively wrapping his arms around his father.

"I know, I know. Seventeen can be a scary one, but I promise it's not _that_ scary." James pulled back to look at his son, keeping his hands on Harry's shoulders. "Think about it. The most that has changed is that you can do magic outside of school now." He paused to think for a moment. "Although don't you dare think that you'll get off easy with your chores because of that."

Harry's lips turned up in an automatic grin, meeting the playful gaze of his father. It was his seventeenth birthday? He had been so caught up with the war that he hadn't even stopped to think about the fact that it was late July, meaning that his seventeenth birthday had indeed arrived.

"Thanks, Dad," Harry mumbled, rushing forward to give James one more hug. If this was how he was dying, he was going to make the most of it. And that meant hugging his father like he had wanted to since – well, for as long as he could remember.

Harry felt thin fingers land briefly on the back of his head, smoothing his wild hair. James gave him a brief squeeze before redirecting him to the kitchen table.

Harry took a seat across from James and glanced around at the table. It was a simple breakfast, but he quickly piled some eggs and sausage on his place, snatching a couple slices of toast from the stack in the middle of the table. As he was preparing to dig in, he saw James nod toward a package to the right of Harry's plate.

"I don't normally do gifts at the breakfast table, but – well – it's tradition, isn't it?" James said with a smile, and Harry wasn't sure if he was imagining the way that his father sounded slightly choked up.

Harry reached for the package and unwrapped it carefully, watching James out of the corner of his eye. The man was watching eagerly, having put his own fork down to wait for Harry to open his gift.

The parcel contained a beautiful gold pocket watch, which Harry pulled from the packaging with reverent fingers. He opened it to see an ornate watch face, black and speckled like a galaxy full of stars. Each of the eight planets was rotating around the Sun in the center of the face, with a shooting star slowly circling the outside of the system. Along the outside edge of the watch was a series of numbers and each of the months of the year, in order to tell the date.

James cleared his throat, but his voice still had a rough edge when he spoke. "That was my father's watch," he said, and sure enough, Harry found the words 'Fleamont Potter' engraved neatly on the back of the watch when he turned it over. "As you know, he died several years before you were born, and your mother and I decided – had decided long ago, before – well, we decided that you should be the one to inherit it when you came of age."

Harry looked down at the watch again, fighting the tears that he could feel gathering in his eyes. He wanted to throw his arms around his father and cry – both for the gift and for the man's presence, even if it was a trap or – more likely – just a dream. Instead, he merely blinked the tears away and tucked the beautiful watch into the pocket of his sleep pants, looking up to meet James' gaze with a smile that he hoped conveyed the gratitude that was tightening overwhelmingly in his chest.

"I – I don't know how to thank you," Harry started awkwardly, noting the tears that were in James' own eyes. He looked down at the tablecloth, feeling uncomfortable with the emotional exchange.

"You're welcome, Harry," James said with a smile, and his eyes crinkled in a way that Harry had never seen in any of the memories of sixteen-year-old James Potter. He stared in response, barely remembering to fix the returning smile on his face.

Lily and James Potter had died so young. They would never have the opportunity to grow old together and therefore they would never exhibit some of the telltale signs of aging. So as Harry took in the streaks of gray in his father's hair and the crow's feet around his eyes – the little mundane signs of aging – he felt something tightening inside of him. He had known from the moment that he had woken up to find himself in James Potter's house that he was seeing the life that he would never get to have – the life that he _should_ have had, perhaps – and it was twisting his emotions in ways that he hadn't thought possible. He had accepted from a young age that he would never grow up with his parents, but for the first time in his life, he had the opportunity to breakfast with James Potter.

Just from glancing around him, Harry could tell that Lily wasn't around. There were only two place settings at the table and only one mug sitting beside the coffee maker on the counter. While there were pictures on the walls, the house held none of the warmth that a woman could bring with her decorating charm. Raising one hand to his forehead, Harry could feel that his lightning bolt scar was still visible there. He was still the Boy-Who-Lived, so Lily had presumably still sacrificed herself for her baby boy on that Halloween night in 1981. It was a sobering thought, that Harry could be fighting the same war but still have his father in his life.

Harry turned to his eggs, although his appetite had suddenly disappeared. Growing up, the one thing that he had wished for in his cupboard night after night was for someone to care for him. And knowing that there was an outcome in which he grew up with one living, loving parent made Harry angry at the unfairness of life all over again.

"So your mates will be over for the party tonight, but I wanted to spend a bit of time with you before you ran off with them at the end of the night. Sirius is stopping by for lunch since he has a meeting tonight, but you and I both know that he'll find a way to be there tonight as well." James grinned around a bite of toast.

"There's a party?" Harry asked stupidly, the mention of Sirius yet another punch in his twisting gut.

James guffawed. "Of course there's a party! It's not every day that you turn seventeen." The Floo chimed in the other room, and James stood quickly to answer it. "That'll be Sirius, I'm sure."

As his father left the room to answer the Floo, Harry took a deep, steadying breath. His head was reeling. But dream, trap, or whatever this strange alternate universe was, Harry never wanted it to end.

"Pronglet!" came the loud roar from the other room, and Harry recognized his godfather's excited voice anywhere.

Sirius rushed into the room, smiling widely and holding a long, thin package that looked suspiciously like a broom to Harry's keen eye. The man looked younger than Harry had ever seen him, as he had never had to endure the miserable wear of serving twelve long years in Azkaban for a crime that he had never committed. He pulled Harry into a rough hug, ruffling his already-messy hair.

Harry laughed, pulling away and drinking in the sight of Sirius, happy and healthy with James standing in the background looking on fondly. The two years without his godfather had been long and difficult, and Harry was eager to spend time with the man and to see the relationship dynamic between his father and the man's best friend.

"We all know that you weren't sorted into Ravenclaw, so I'm sure that you have _no idea_ what this is," Sirius announced with a dramatic wink, handing the parcel over to Harry.

Harry ripped the wrapping from the package, revealing a sleek new Firebolt. He hadn't considered the fact that he might not have his racing broom in this universe, and he ran his hands reverently over the handle. His name was engraved into the shiny gold nameplate.

"Sirius," he breathed in surprise, although he knew that his godfather had been the one to give him his Firebolt during his third year as well.

"Sure beats that old Nimbus 2000, doesn't it?" the older man teased with a grin. "My only condition is that you let me embarrass your old dad on it at least once."

Harry jumped up and threw his arms around his godfather, fighting back tears for the second time that morning. "Thank you! Merlin's beard, this must have been so expensive."

Sirius merely shrugged. "Your godson only turns seventeen once." He picked up the broom and examined the nameplate. "One of only four made for the year. Polished ebony wood handle, only the finest of hazel twigs to ensure turning precision. Top speeds of one hundred and fifty miles per hour. Slytherin doesn't have a chance at winning the Quidditch Cup this year," he added with a sly grin.

Harry smirked in return. "They never had a chance anyway."

"Okay, okay," James interrupted suddenly, grabbing a small box and a rectangular package from the other room. "Since we're already exchanging gifts and Sirius helped out a bit, you might as well open this one as well. Start with the small one."

Harry took the two gifts from his father's outstretched hands. He lifted the lid of the smaller box and stared in confusion at the small green leaf he found inside. At his father's urging, he opened the rectangular package and pulled out a stack of paperwork. At the top of the first piece of parchment, big black block letters read, "Application for Animagus Registry."

Harry looked up in shock, his gazing flickering between his father and his godfather, both of whom were smiling broadly.

"As you know, Sirius and I became Animagi when we were in school to help with Remus' transformation. Well, you're an adult now, and we wanted our gift to you to be our help in becoming an Animagus yourself," James began. He picked up the smaller box, gently shaking the leaf around inside it. "The process is long and difficult, but it begins by holding a mandrake leaf in your mouth for a month. This is a mandrake leaf for you to begin the process whenever you are ready." He held up the small, green leaf between two fingers.

Harry's jaw felt like it had dropped to the kitchen floor. "You're . . . you're helping me become an Animagus for my birthday."

"It's not easy, of course," Sirius chimed in. "But the process is worth it in the end, and I'm sure that your father won't mind having another stag running around with us."

Harry laughed in delight, grabbing the mandrake leaf from his father's hand and examining it more carefully. "A month? I'll have to start tonight so I can finish that part of the process before I leave for Hogwarts. I can't wait to tell Ron and Hermione!" he exclaimed, hoping that his two best friends were still as close in this world.

As he threw his arms around his father one last time, he felt the world begin to tilt around him, the color starting to drain from the scene.

 _"Harry, mate?"_

Harry clenched his eyes tight and tightened his grip on his father, focusing on the solidness of the body in his arms and the heaviness of the pocket watch weighing down his thin pants.

oOoOo

"Harry!"

Harry lay perfectly still in bed, knowing exactly what he would open his eyes to see. He didn't to be bombarded by the brash colors of Ron's favorite Quidditch team, and he didn't want to go downstairs to eat breakfast with a full house that loved him like family but could never truly be one to him.

"Go away, Ron."

"C'mon mate, it's your birthday! Mum made cake and everything!" Ron edged in an imploring voice.

Harry threw himself from the bed quickly, pushing past a startled Ron and slamming the door to the bathroom behind him. He slid into the shower, wishing that the scalding water could burn away the images in his mind. He could still feel his father's arms around him, as though the dream had been the true events of the morning and Harry had merely wandered off to take a quick nap before his party later that night.

But no amount of wishful thinking could replace the bitter truth. For even over the shower, he could hear the eager shouts of Fred and George jostling for more bacon. And Molly Weasley's loud response to their antics would never be the warm, good-natured voice of James Potter.

Dashing away tears, Harry slid down the shower wall, wishing that he could Obliviate himself.

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 **In case you're wondering, the watch that Harry receives from James is inspired by a real watch (thisiswhyimbroke** **/moving-planetarium-watch/). And, you know, if anyone feels like buying me a Christmas gift and has an extra $245,000 lying around, I'm not saying no. ;P**


End file.
